Writing Conferences; a gathering of spell-weavers.

​

    So, there I am, standing at the registration desk while around me swirls a whirlwind of activity. I juggle the briefcase I bought just for the conference—got to look professional—while I listen to what the nice volunteer handing me a packet and gift bag filled with items I’ll never use. But I keep losing focus. There’s just too much chaos.

    Wait, isn’t that one of my favorite authors over there? I squint, trying to read the nametag from across the room. John. John…. Nope, too many letters in the last name. Not who I thought. I turn back to the volunteer who is staring at me, waiting for me to acknowledge that I understand the meaning of the red, blue, and green dots on the name nametag. I smile, pretending I heard everything, say thank you and move out of the way of next dear-in-the-headlights behind me in line.

    Space. I need a place where I can sit for a minute. Gather my thoughts. There isn’t one. The few small tables set around the room are occupied. People even sitting on the wide, curved staircase dominating the far end of a gallery meant to make even the most insignificant event feal grand.

    Maybe the lobby? I head back to the front of the hotel. Every couch and chair is taken. Where else? The restaurant? I think about two twenties in my wallet. Credit card?

    The thing is, the conference is costing me a lot. I know all about “investing in yourself.” But you have to have something to invest, and I was already dancing on the edge of solvency. Okay, maybe a cup of coffee.

    At the restaurant my luck is in. No tables, but several seats at the counter. I order coffee and driven by the fear of looking cheap—funny, the things that drive us—a doughnut. My fingers covered in syrupy sugar, I open the folder the nice volunteer had given me. Inside, printed on glossy paper, is a pamphlet containing information about the conference. Daily schedule. Who is speaking. Bios of editors and agents. A summary of each of the forty or fifty mini-workshops. Too much. No way was I going to be able to do all the things I wanted.

    That’s when it hit me. I was going to have to plan my day like a Napoleonic campaign. This was war and I intended to win.

 

Next up: Conference Workshops; Or, Buried Alive.